


Praying the Rosary

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: Hell, Paved with Priests' Skulls [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: LIKE A LOT OF BLASPHEMY, M/M, MONKS IN A MONASTERY HAVING SACRILEGIOUS SEX KIND OF BLASPHEMY, a lot of blasphemy, mild bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Further hesitation, as Enjolras watches Grantaire give an almost-imperceptible nod of understanding, and thrusts his arms back further, bare chest out. And Grantaire feels wooden beads looped around his wrist once, twice, and then three times. Loose enough that if he truly struggles, his hands could slip from the makeshift binding. Grantaire does not struggle, and his head and shoulders fall forward and meet stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Praying the Rosary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ryssabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/gifts).



When Brother Joly finally declares Grantaire well enough to be released from the confines of the infirmary, Grantaire returns to his dormitory for the first time in over a month. He’s back in his black robes, and the smells of illness and fire no longer haunt him as harshly as before, though he’s more than aware that the village has been decimated by plague--but at least it has passed entirely, for now, and his brothers busy themselves in the rebuilding of shops and cottages. He makes a half-hearted offer to help, too, but then Joly only glares at him in response, and Grantaire shrugs.

“Thought I might be of some use,” he mumbles, although in truth he has no desire to leave the monastery. He did not before, and does not now.

(He will never forget a night spend locked in a cupboard inside his father’s manor, and the screams and the smell of smoke and the stench of blood seeping into floorboards.

The monastery holds him close now, and as safe as he will ever be.

He might have been grateful to die behind its walls.)

Then Enjolras gives him a small smile that no one else sees, and Grantaire glances away, downwards at the floor.

He is not sure of what they are anymore--not that he was ever sure--but after their last encounter and the sweetness he found there in its aftermath--

( _Enjolras leaned down over him, pressed their foreheads together and whispered his name as though he was invoking a revered saint in prayer. Grantaire turned his face to the side, did not want the other man to see the tears burning behind his eyelids, because Enjolras saw everything, he always did, omnipotent and beautiful--_ )

But when Enjolras comes to his room that night, Grantaire cannot stop himself from welcoming him, moving over on his bed to make room. Summer is unbearably hot and humid, even after dusk, and Grantaire slipped out of his tunic and scapular before climbing into bed. Enjolras does the same--Grantaire does not need to invite him.

For a while, they are silent.

“You are eating better,” Enjolras finally says, trailing fingers over his ribs. They not stab as much as they used to, and neither do his hipbones. Enjolras places a kiss on each of them, in turn, and Grantaire does not encourage or protest. He lies back, shadowed and still, aching for something he does not have the words to ask for. Instead, he captures Enjolras’ hair in his hands, draws him upwards and brings their mouths together.

This is a language that they both speak too easily, as Grantaire opens his mouth to a probing tongue, keeps his hands locked into soft curls and sighs.

_Skin on skin_ is rare is their hurried encounters, but they revel in it now, and Grantaire would like to take his time for once and even Enjolras does not rush too much, as he guides Grantaire onto his knees and upright against the wall with kisses pressed against his spine and Grantaire feels himself come _alive_ as his hands scrabble against stone and he pushes back against Enjolras’ fingers--one, _two_ , and _three_ \--and then his cock, hard against his lower back, using the wall as leverage.

Enjolras knows every little secret of his body, even better than Grantaire himself. Fingers press inside him, play him like an unearthly instrument of angels or likely demons, and he begins to twist and buck at the intensity of feeling there.

(These are the feelings that he can bear, so he opens himself to them--wide-eyed and damp-mouthed and struggling not to scream.)

“You move too much,” Enjolras grunts, with the back of Grantaire’s neck between his teeth. He wriggles his fingers and removes them, and the sound of loss torn from Grantaire is like _fucking music_ , and he will draw it from him yet again, before the night is out. Grantaire can feel the bed shift as Enjolras moves off of it, fumbling for something on the floor.

Grantaire nearly whines when the warmth at his back leaves and arches his back further in a wordless plea, and when a kneeling Enjolras returns to the bed in another shift of weight, he groans and grinds back against him.

“Patience,” Enjolras says, through a voice hoarse with want that belies his command, and reaches up to take Grantaire’s hands in his. Their fingers twine together instinctively, pressed against the wall, and then Enjolras hesitates a moment. “May I--”

“ _Please_ ,” Grantaire begs, and he knows what he’s begging for even if he does not know what Enjolras is asking him, and he is surprised if compliant when Enjolras tugs his arms back and back until they are pulled fully behind him.

Further hesitation, as Enjolras watches Grantaire give an almost-imperceptible nod of understanding, and thrusts his arms back further, bare chest out. And Grantaire feels _wooden beads_ looped around his wrist once, twice, and then three times. Loose enough that if he truly struggles, his hands could slip from the makeshift binding. Grantaire does not struggle, and his head and shoulders fall forward and meet stone.

He feels a carved crucifix fall soft into his palm, dangling from the Rosary that Enjolras has used to tie his wrists behind him.

(God has never been so welcome to Grantaire, as He is now).

“Is this--?” Enjolras asks, close and hot in his ear. He can feel his saliva-slicked cock slide between his legs, against his balls, and their bodies are slippery with sweat from the heat they have created for one another.

A pleasant kind of hell, to say the least, and Grantaire in chains besides.

“ _God_ , Enjolras!” he keens, in a whimpering exhale. “Please _fuck_ me. _Please_.”

When he begins to push inwards, Grantaire gasps at the stretch, the fullness of it, so long missed while he was ill. Enjolras wraps an arm around his chest and shoulders when Grantaire throws his head back, so that he is not fucked into bruises against the wall. Damp curls come to rest in the curve where neck meets shoulder, and Grantaire’s throat is bared for tongue and teeth to trace. His fingers scrape red along Enjolras’ marble stomach, where they are trapped between the meeting of bodies in search of satiation.

Grantaire relishes his inability to move his arms as the other man takes him, savoring Enjolras’ control over his body and movement as he allows Enjolras to take his pleasure with him. He can feel precome leaking down the length of his untouched, aching cock.

Enjolras stops moving, then, still buried in Grantaire. Another whimper, as he bucks back ineffectually, and Enjolras hauls him backwards and then down, and Grantaire must turn his head to the side so that he is not smothered in the sheepskin coverlet. 

“Fuck yourself against me,” Enjolras growls, and Grantaire feels a sharp slap against his rear. He imagines the red print forming there, in the shape of Enjolras’ perfect hand. Then a perfect hand pulls hard, _harder_ in his hair. “Come on, then, _fuck yourself_ until you cannot move, cannot beg for me anymore,” he hisses, and Grantaire feels himself flush and the blood in his cock begins to pulse harder.

A panting Grantaire swallows and tries to obey--begins to rock back and forth entirely without rhythm on his knees, and his head arced back by the relentless hold Enjolras has in his hair. With every movement of his hips, his head jerks against the tight grip and the sharpness in his scalp only adds to the pleasure building and aching low in his stomach, and the pressure in his cock. There’s friction against it now, between his stomach and the mattress, and that only encourages him to try and fuck himself faster against Enjolras.

But is not enough for either man, as Grantaire tries to take him deeper and his knees are trembling, and he is barely able to remain upon them.

“Is this what you want?” Enjolras asks, with a hard snap of his hips. “ _This_?”

Another thrust, even more forceful than the last--and _there finally fucking there_ and with with his body bent in upon itself his cock drags across his own sweat-smooth stomach-- 

Grantaire can feel himself begin to shudder, as something inside of him unravels, until he is a writhing, sobbing, _coming_ wreck, just as the other man had wanted of him.

When it hits him hardest, and Enjolras does not cease in fucking him through it, he buries his sharp cry into the mattress, and Enjolras cannot make out the words spilling from his mouth.

(Grantaire does not recall them even as they escape his lips--something about worship or God and prayer or even _love_ \--he does not remember, and so it should matter little.)

The hold on his hair is released, and Grantaire all but collapses, his arms still bound behind his back. Enjolras takes him by the hips and pounds forward, again and again--and Grantaire loves being used until he’s _raw_ , like this--until he comes, too, with a groan of _Jesus Christ_ as he pulls out and Grantaire can feel the other man’s release sticky on his back, and Enjolras falls into it, onto him.

Their breathing grows steady and more sure together, until--

“Enjolras?”

(It is one of the few times they have ever spoken, directly after the act.)

“Hm?” A hum, ringing of contentment, in Grantaire’s ear.

“I am afraid my arms might be ripped from my shoulders, if you insist upon laying upon me in this state.”

Enjolras chuckles into the nape of his neck, and pushes himself up just enough to unwind the Rosary from Grantaire’s wrists, and Grantaire stretches his arms with a sigh of relief and sinks back into the bed. Enjolras keeps the string of beads held reverently in his hand.

_Their hands_ , as Enjolras places a kiss into the center of Grantaire’s palm, and weaves their fingers together.

He falls asleep that way, and Grantaire cannot find it in him to mind, if only for an hour or so, even if he cannot find it in him to sleep himself, just yet.


End file.
